“Yes, ma’am, but I drink decaf now, with stevia.” Though a cup of sugary-sweet full-caf might keep him going a while longer.
“I’m afraid we don’t have decaf. Or stevia.” She took the mug back. “Can I get you something else? Sweet tea?”
Lucky wouldn’t mention tea being caffeinated and full of sugar too. “Tell you what. Got any fresh milk? The store-bought stuff ain’t the real thing.”
His mother gave a sniff and smiled. “Sure do. Old Bossy gave us a gallon this morning.”
Mom named every milk cow they’d ever owned “Bossy.” This current milker must be Bossy the fifteenth or sixteenth.
“How about you?” Mama turned her watery eyes Bo’s way.
“Milk sounds good to me.”
Probably the lesser of the evils. And Bo’s manners didn’t allow him asking for anything else, or turning down the offer completely. Southern mamas fed people as an instinct. Better to eat than be asked every five minutes, “Are you sure I can’t get you something?”
Mama darted between the cabinet, the refrigerator, and back, with a glass of milk in each hand.
Not even completely cold yet. Milk didn’t come any fresher, or with traces of cream floating on top. The refrigerator and stove were new, and somewhere along the line Mama finally got her wish of a dishwasher, but Granddaddy’s handmade white cabinet still took up one wall, and a table big enough to fit all seven Lucklighters showed the marks of time—and a few scratches from the pocketknife Lucky used to carry.
Had Mama ever found the “REL” he’d carved underneath?
A tablet computer, a new addition, sat on the counter, a recipe showing on the screen.
Traces of coffee, bacon, and vanilla taunted his nose, along with the ghostly cinnamon of a million apple pies. Sweetest smell in the world.
“You boys want some bacon?” Mama tossed out a few burned bacon strips and started over cooking more.
Mmmmm… Bacon.
“Nah, that’s all right.” Lucky’s stomach roared, calling him a liar.
Mama set her spatula on a nearby spoon rest, hanging her head. With an unfamiliar chill in her tone, she said, “I didn’t know how to tell your Daddy about you and Bristol. Charlotte’s in with him now, trying to explain. I thought it best if she talks to him.”
Really? Mama and Daddy had always told each other everything.
“I hope this ain’t a bad time, but I needed to check on how y’all are doing.” And deep down inside, the little boy in Lucky needed his parents.
Mama sniffled. “As well as can be expected, I reckon. I keep wondering where I went wrong, like I did with…” She shot Lucky an eyeful of guilt.
Lucky placed his hands on her thin shoulders. “You didn’t do one thing wrong, Mama. You raised us right. Not your fault we went our own way.”
“That’s what your sister keeps telling me. I’d never have made it these past few months without her.” She sighed. “And now you’re back. I’d always dreamed of having all my young’uns here again. Now…” Silent sobs racked her body. “After you… after they told us… oh, God, how it hurt. I’d lost you twice, the first time because of stubbornness, and then…”
Once more Lucky offered all the comfort he could. He’d shed his tears for lost years later. For now, he’d be strong. For Mama.
She rolled wet-lashed eyes upward. “Tell me. Did Bristol commit suicide? Reverend Hildebrand says suicides can’t go to Heaven.”
The sobbing began anew. Charlotte appeared in the doorway. “I done told you, Mama, it don’t say that nowhere in the Bible that I’ve seen.” She gave Lucky a one-armed hug and eased their mother from Lucky’s arms into hers. “’Sides, we have to wait for the coroner’s report.”
A world of hurt in his sister’s eyes hit Lucky so hard he staggered. He wouldn’t tell them how Bristol died. Not now. Not the time.
Charlotte made a shooing motion with her hand. “Daddy’s waiting. Go talk to him. Bo, would you mind helping me with Mama?”
Tiptoeing down the hall like he’d done when he’d stayed out late and snuck in after curfew came way too close to the anxiety-ridden trek he’d made from free man to jail cell.
Lucky stood in front of the bedroom door. Breathe in/breathe out.
He put one of his counselor’s calming exercises to use:
